Commendation
by Altariel
Summary: "Give me enough medals and I'll win you any war." Napoleon Bonaparte. Who gets the honours in Minas Tirith?
1. Commendation

This is a follow-up to two stories by the wonderful Isabeau of Greenlea, in which Amrothos of Dol Amroth, Faramir's cousin, assists in the destruction of the bridge at Osgiliath. The stories are "The Blasted Bridge" and "Consolation".

However, this story should stand alone.

* * *

 **Commendation**

 _Minas Tirith, June 3018 T.A._

Feeling that he had proven his mettle sufficiently in recent days, Faramir waited until he knew his uncle was not at home before taking himself down to his house on the sixth circle. There, in the library, nose in a book, he found his cousin, Amrothos.

Faramir stood at the door and watched the young man read. Bookish and nervy, clever and sensitive, his young cousin had, by his father's will, not been sent to war like his older brothers and cousins. Yet Faramir had called, and Amrothos had come – into the middle of the worst battle that Faramir himself had hitherto seen. And he had kept his wits about him like a twenty-years' man, and, through his skill, had blasted the bridge and saved the western bank from being overrun. No doubting this young man's courage, although Imrahil, Faramir suspected, would have plenty to say about the whole business.

"Rothos," he said, softly, and entered the room.

Amrothos, seeing his beloved older cousin, smiled and put down his book. "Cousin!" he said, and made to rise, but Faramir gestured to him to stay down. He came to sit beside him on the couch, placing the small parcel he carried to one side. He quickly took in the young man's pallor, his tired eyes, the brandy bottle on the table to one side, and the glass containing a generous measure. It was not much past noon.

"How are you, cousin?" said Rothos. "How is your shoulder?"

 _Aching, abominably_. "I've had worse," said Faramir. "What's your book?"

Amrothos passed it over. A collection of Khandian verse. Faramir's command of the language was better than most, but rusty by his own standards. Everything he loved to do went undone. He frowned down at the page, and picked out a few lines here and there, and waited.

"Faramir," said Rothos, very quietly. "I've felt most dreadfully _odd_ ever since… Well. Since."

Faramir nodded and kept leafing through the book. The trick was to leave space to speak. The words would come tumbling out soon enough, and he would feel much better for it.

"Not just the Shadow, whatever that was…" Amrothos stammered, and stopped.

For a moment, the sun quavered. Faramir shivered; it was like a cold hand upon his shoulder or sour grey breath upon his back. He put down the book. "Go on."

"Not just that," Amrothos said. "But the rest. The noise, and— Well, I knew, in my head, what a body must look like, but somehow at close quarters, it all becomes rather different, doesn't it?" He stopped and wiped his hand across his face. "Very different."

"I know," said Faramir, softly. "How are you sleeping?"

Amrothos joggled his hand about. _So-so_.

"It can take a while," Faramir said. His eye strayed back to the brandy glass. "Don't drink."

Amrothos flushed.

"Promise me, Rothos."

The young man swallowed. "I promise."

"Good," said Faramir. "Now," he said, picking up the parcel he had brought, "I have a letter for you – from the Captain-General no less."

"Oh yes?" Amrothos frowned. "What does Boromir want from me?"

Faramir opened the parcel. As well as the letter, which he handed across, there was a small black case, about the size of his palm. He held this while his cousin read the letter.

"Faramir…?" Amrothos said in puzzlement, looking up from the letter. "A commendation—?"

"For your service on the bridge."

"But I'm not in the army—"

"Field commission," said Faramir. They were bending the rules, but then they were Boromir's to bend.

"I don't know what to say…"

"No need. You might think about what you'll say to Elphir and Chiron, however."

A slow and satisfied smile spread across his cousin's face.

"There's something else." Faramir undid the clasp on the case, and showed Amrothos what lay inside.

A small oval brooch, black, bearing the White Tree, with a motto silvered beneath. "Here," he said, lifting it out. "Let me see to this." He reached across to pin the brooch to the other man's chest. Gently, he kissed Amrothos on the brow. "For valour beyond duty."

Amrothos blushed. "Oh cousin," he said. "I hardly think—"

"That's what it says." He pointed at the silver words. "So it must be true."

Amrothos traced his fingers over the brooch. "This is a lovely thing," he murmured. He looked up sharply at his cousin. ""Do you have one?"

Faramir shook his head. "No."

"Really? What about Boromir?"

 _Yes_. "I don't know. Probably. Boromir generally has so much metal about him I'm surprised he doesn't topple over."

Amrothos began to laugh. _That_ , thought Faramir, _was what I wanted to hear_.

They heard the front door, and then, in the hall, Imrahil's voice. _"In the library, is he?"_

Faramir rose from his seat. He looked again at his cousin, who was still admiring the brooch, and he felt a soft pang of envy – at the life this young man led, at the freedom of his days, the quiet interests, the time and the peace to pursue them. He damped this down quickly, as he did much else, there being no point thinking that way. The handle turned on the door. He clasped his hands behind him, back straight, to attention, and waited for his uncle to arrive.

* * *

 _Altariel, 5_ _th_ _August 2018_


	2. Memento Mori

**Memento Mori**

Mere hours before his brother rode North on the quest, he came to find Faramir, working quietly in his room. He was carrying a small black case which he shoved unceremoniously into Faramir's hand.

"Here," Boromir said. "You should have got one years ago. You should have at least half a dozen by now."

Faramir turned the case around. It was rather bashed. "Beyond duty," he said. "But it has never been beyond my duty." He offered the case back, shaking his head. "I can't take this."

"You can and you will," his brother said roughly. "Valar's sake! Who else has done more? Or if you must be difficult, tell yourself you're minding it for me."

So he kept it, and he even wore it once, pinning it inside his tunic before he rode by his father's command to the river. Something of his brother to carry him, into darkness.

He woke to life, to the work of healing, to orphanhood and the stewardship. By some strange fate the brooch too had survived. He saw it on the table by his bedside: it was just within his powers to reach for it. He held it in his hand against his heart. Something of his brother to carry with him, into this brave new world.

* * *

 _Altariel, 6_ _th_ _August 2018_


	3. Caritas

**Caritas**

 _Minas Tirith, evening of the 16_ _th_ _March 3019_

The Prince of Dol Amroth, who was, until his kinsman was able, in command in the city, had spent a long day in council with Mithrandir and the captains of Gondor. When evening came, he was ready to rest, but before he sought his bed, he paid a visit to his nephew in the Houses of Healing.

In a quiet room, watched by Beregond of the Guard, the Steward of Gondor was sleeping. Imrahil, having spoken to the Warden, knew that such had been the case for much of the day, but not the fever-dreams in which Faramir had been wandering. Instead, this was the rest of a healing man.

Imrahil sat by his nephew's bed. Colour was returning to Faramir's face, he saw with relief, and, more so, there was peace there at last, where for years now there had only been cares. Reaching out, he stroked his nephew's dark hair, and ran his hand along his cheek. There were several days of growth there: if Imrahil knew his nephew, he would want to shave when he woke. All through these long years he had remained clean-shaven, not the easiest habit to maintain in the wilds of Ithilien. Perhaps the discipline had been useful. Or perhaps it was an insistence on appearing as the man he would be without war.

Imrahil reached for his nephew's hand. He thought, as he always did when he saw her sons, of his sister Finduilas, whom he had loved and lost. Sitting now beside her one surviving son, he thanked with all his heart whatever grace the Valar had shown him that he had not lost him. That he could not have borne.

Faramir was holding something. Imrahil, opening his hand, found an oval brooch, black, with the White Tree engraved upon it, and silver letters beneath. There was a chip in the casing, and the Tree was scratched. His nephew had been wearing the brooch when they'd brought his body from the field. Imrahil had taken it for safe-keeping and, when his nephew was saved from Denethor's madness and brought to this place of healing, he had put the brooch on the table beside him. He was glad his nephew had found it there. _Valour beyond duty_ , the letters said.

Imrahil twisted the brooch around in his fingers. He wondered whose it was. Not Faramir's, he guessed; Denethor, he suspected, would have found reasons not to give the honour. And the type of war he had fought – until these last battles – had been the kind that if successful went unmarked.

One of his sons had won one of these – not Elphir, the soldier, or Erchirion, the sailor – but the other, Amrothos, his youngest, scholarly son, who had earned the honour for swimming under Shadow to place charges upon the bridge at Osgiliath, thus preventing the western bank from being overrun. Imrahil had been distraught when he heard of this, and, learning that the idea had been Faramir's, had been angry beyond words. Faramir of all men should have understood his desire to save Amrothos the horrors of war. And instead he had flung him into the middle of a pitched battle.

When Imrahil had confronted him, Faramir had simply stood in silence and taken the rebuke. He had looked regretful but unrepentant, which had infuriated Imrahil even more. Then, unexpectedly, Amrothos had spoken up.

"Father," he said, "you do me an injustice. I've earned this honour and I'm proud to have done so—"

"I have tried, how I have tried, to keep you away from war, and yet your cousin, in his wisdom, decides to throw you onto the front line—"

"Father! He asked for my help and I gave it willingly. The darkness is coming! You cannot protect me forever!"

And so he had let the matter drop, but in the following months he had watched his sensitive son for the signs: troubled sleep, nerves, anger, and his own weakness, taking solace in the bottle. But he had seen none of this and, when the call from Minas Tirith at last came, and Imrahil had rode to the defence of Gondor, he had left his youngest son and daughter behind. When he said goodbye to them, not knowing if he would ever see them again, wondering how long it would be before the Shadow took Dol Amroth in its turn, he had embraced Amrothos. Holding him then at arm's-length, to capture his face in memory to see him through the coming weeks, he had seen a new strength in the boy, a sureness of self, and he thought: _This is someone who knows that if the Shadow comes, he is certain of the strength to face it._ And Imrahil found that he was glad of this consolation. A strange gift from his nephew, he thought, but one for which he was grateful.

"It was Boromir's," a quiet voice said, tired, and rather hoarse.

Imrahil looked up. His nephew was awake, head still on the pillow, but his eyes were bright and sharp.

"He gave it to me before he left," Faramir said.

Imrahil helped his nephew sit up. He brought water in a cup and held it so that Faramir could drink. "Not yours then?"

Faramir closed his eyes and leaned back. "No."

As he'd thought. Imrahil leaned forwards, and began to pin the brooch upon his nephew's shirt. Faramir, opening his eyes, frowned, and pushed his uncle's hand away. "No."

"Faramir—"

"I am the Steward now," said Faramir. "I give the honours."

"While you lie in this bed," said Imrahil, "I stand in place of the Steward."

The muscles in Faramir's jaw twitched. "I'm getting up tomorrow."

"But for today you are at my command." Imrahil pinned the brooch upon him. "There," he said. " _Valour beyond duty._ If any action has earned that description, it is the defence of Gondor in those last hours."

Faramir closed his eyes again. He placed his hand, for a moment, upon the brooch, over his heart, and nodded. Then he said, "I'm hungry. And I wish I could shave."

Imrahil laughed. Rising from his chair, he went to the door to summon Beregond to bring whatever the Lord of Gondor might require to aid his healing.

* * *

 _Altariel, 7_ _th_ _August 2018_


	4. Glory in Danger

**Glory in Danger**

 _Minas Tirith, 3013 T.A_

The evening that Boromir received the honour was marvellous. The Hall was ablaze with light and laughter. Lords grasped his hand; sang his praises. Ladies of all ages blushed when he went past. Everyone wanted to speak to him; everyone wanted a little reflected glory. Every time his father told the tale, he seemed to glow more with pride. He was loved, admired, _needed_. He was also gloriously, magnificently drunk.

At some point, he realised his brother was no longer there.

* * *

Faramir was back at home, in his room, at his desk, pen in hand. Books open in front of him. A bottle of wine, half empty. He had changed out of his formal clothes and now looked… Boromir had to struggle for a while to find the right word. His brother looked _relaxed_. That was… rare.

"What are you doing? You're not _working_?"

"Not tonight, no."

"Letters?"

"No…"

"Then what?"

"Writing."

"I can see that. Writing what?"

"Nothing important." He carried on scratching away, then stopped and crossed out a word or two. "Entirely frivolous, in fact."

"I know you're not one for large gatherings," said Boromir, "but I thought you might last a little longer tonight of all nights. Was it that bad?"

"Not in the least. Very pleasant. But I'm quite happy here. Books. Wine. Peace. How often does that happen?"

"Yes," said Boromir, "but—"

"I was there to see you receive your honour."

Boromir looked down at it. The Tree glittered back up at him, and the words: _Valour Beyond Duty. Valour…_ He smiled down, fondly. Then frowned. "Is that as long as you stayed?"

His brother's pen scratched on.

"Faramir, is that as long as you stayed?"

"Yes, I came home shortly after."

"You didn't stay _at all_?" Boromir came over to the desk, peered over his brother's shoulder. "What _are_ you writing?"

His brother put down his pen. "You know what I like to write."

"You came away from…" He stopped himself from saying _my party_ , it sounded petulant. "You left to come home and write _poetry_?"

"I don't get much chance these days."

"Rather than celebrate with me?"

"I did celebrate," he said. "And then I came home."

Boromir pulled over a chair and sat down. They hadn't talked in months. Faramir had been in Ithilien, and in fact had only arrived home late that afternoon, by which time Boromir had already been slightly drunk. He hadn't had a chance to tell him the tale of what had happened, the whole reason for tonight's celebration. "Have you heard the story yet?"

"Father's told me. Several times, in fact, since my arrival."

Boromir frowned.

"And then I heard it from others five or six more times. There were some embellishments – at least I hope they were embellishments. And then I came home." He picked up the bottle and poured himself some more wine. He drank, deeply, and picked up his pen once again. "To do something entirely frivolous."

Boromir watched him write. "Faramir," he said, "are you _angry_ with me?"

"Yes," said his brother, calmly. "I'm very angry with you. Did you want a drink, by the way? There's plenty left."

"I think I do."

Faramir passed him the wine. Boromir looked around for a glass, and then decided not to bother, and took a swig directly from the bottle. He was starting to feel angry himself. "Care to explain why?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't. Everyone's happy. I'm happy, the council is happy, everyone I meet on the street is happy – even Father's happy. But not you. Oh no! You're _angry_."

Faramir was eyeing him narrowly. Boromir _hated_ that look. That cool, shrewd look that reminded him exactly how similar his nearest relations were; how impossible it was to conceal anything. Frustrated, irritated at the way the evening was turning out, he burst out, "I wish you weren't so… _scrupulous_."

"Is that so? Since we're making wishes – I wish you weren't so reckless."

"Reckless?"

"What other word should I use?"

" _Brave_ —"

"Rash. I suppose I could say 'rash'." Suddenly his eyes flashed. "For pity's sake, brother – what were you _thinking_?"

"It needed to be done—"

"By you?"

"I was there—"

"So were a dozen other men! You don't have to throw yourself in front of every passing arrow… You could've been killed! And then what? What do you think would happen, if you were to die? To Father? To _Gondor_?"

He snorted. "I'm not going to die!"

"No?"

"No!" He shook his head. "Not for a while. Brother, this is ridiculous! Yes, I took a risk, but so what? It all turned out well, didn't it?"

"You don't always have to lead from the front—"

"That's rich coming from you—"

"Yes, but I'm not the heir! I'm not the one that he would—"

"Go on. Say it."

"I'm not the one that he would miss." Faramir ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not the one that Gondor would miss."

They sat in silence for a while. Boromir put down the bottle. He tapped his brother on the arm and, when he had his attention, gave him a lopsided smile. "I'd miss you."

Softly, Faramir began to laugh. "Thank you. That's very kind."

"You're not angry with me any more?"

"No… A little… Quite a lot… No. But please – promise me you won't do anything like that again."

He reached for the bottle, filled his brother's glass, gave him a smile filled with regret. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't."

* * *

He was right not to promise. He threw himself between the Halflings and more than a few passing arrows, and he knew he was right to do so, that doing so might make things right again. They left, left him dying – him, _dying_ – carried the Halflings away… _I'm sorry_ , he thought. _Sorry for everything. I love you. I'll miss you_.

* * *

Sian22 wondered how Boromir got his medal. I know this is a bit of a cheat, but…

 _Altariel, 22_ _nd_ _September 2018_


	5. We Regret to Inform You

**We Regret to Inform You**

 _Minas Tirith, 3013 T.A._

Faramir had certainly not set out to spoil his brother's evening. In fact, he had been looking forward to the occasion: going home, celebrating with him, taking a few days to enjoy a rare success. But the morning he was due to leave, the patrol returned to the refuge one man short. Celion was dead.

Bad luck, Mablung explained, as Faramir sat in his chair in his private space and put his hands to his head. Not anything anyone had done wrong. A quick skirmish, easily won – but they'd all missed that one of the orcs still had life in it. The filthy beast threw a knife before anyone realised what was happening. And that was that – Celion was dead. They'd buried him at the side of the road under the big redleaf four miles away. They said some words and left a marker. Everything done right.

He'd liked Celion. He liked all his Rangers, more or less, or at least appreciated their foibles, but Celion had been someone who might choose to spend some quiet time with a book. They'd met a few times in the City. He'd gone to his house, met his wife, eaten with them. Their home was small and filled with love.

The morning thus became one of filling in papers to secure the widow's pension; packing up the young man's possessions to take back with him; keeping himself busy. A hush lay over the refuge: sometimes not even the Rangers could shift their Captain's mood. Eventually he shouldered his pack and set out for Cair Andros where he picked up a horse and rode home.

His father was there when he arrived. He took one look at Faramir's face and said, "I hope you're not going to ruin your brother's evening."

"Valar's sake, Father, of course not!" Then he took another risk. "I've had sad news. About a friend." When he explained what had happened, Father surprised him. That, he reflected, was one of the things that made Father so difficult. The sudden moments of consideration that caught you unawares. The fact that you could not rely on them. "I'm sorry to hear that," Denethor said. "Is the pension underway?"

"I completed the papers this morning."

"Good. Well done."

But his father really wanted to talk about Boromir, so he listened for a while to that story with an increasing sense of dread. Then he went and dressed in his formal clothes, pasted on a happy smile, and saw his brother celebrated for what he was concluding was one of Boromir's more irresponsible exploits. When the medal was pinned on, he applauded with everyone else, and then he nodded through numerous conversations about his brother's courage and excellence. At length, he decided that Gondor would not miss him for a few hours, and he went home.

He found a bottle of wine, took it to his room, and sat at his desk. The kitchen cat came to find him. He stroked her ears for a while, drinking slowly but purposefully. When he felt drunk enough, he picked up his pen and started writing. Nonsense verse; word games. It made him smile. When Boromir arrived, they quarrelled and made up, like they always did. His brother went out drinking, and he went to bed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The next day he took the news to Celion's wife. She sat and wept on his shoulder. He could feel the little room become chill and sad. She would not stay here, he thought. Her family was in Lossarnach. She had come to the City to marry her young man. After she stopped crying, she sifted through what he had brought back with him from the refuge. Some of his things made her laugh. She said, "Mother said – don't do it. Don't marry a soldier. You'll regret it. But I don't regret it. I never will."

He wished he had a medal to give her, but he didn't. He didn't.

* * *

 _Altariel, 25_ _th_ _September 2018_


	6. Valour Without Renown

**Valour Without Renown**

" _All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more."_

Éowyn, _The Passing of the Grey Company_

* * *

 _Minas Tirith, April 3019, T.A._

Faramir knew what they were saying in some quarters about his wife-to-be. They would not dare say it to his face: he looked far too much like his father. But he knew because she had said something to him once on similar lines, in the garden of the Houses of Healing, before he had persuaded her to choose life and love; and he knew too because Húrin kept him informed. Some people, it seemed, said that the White Lady of Rohan was a deserter.

Speaking for himself, he could not censure her for riding south. If she had not been there, in the garden, when he had been walking alone with his heart heavy and his thoughts set on his sorrows, he was not sure how he would have borne those days. Learning about his father's death; taking up his father's rule… The King may have brought him back to life, but Éowyn made that life worth living.

There were other reasons for him to be grateful to her. In those last hours, after he rode for the river, he had fallen under the sway of the Black Captain. There had been no respite from the terror overhead, as if he had been marked for death. At the end, he was beaten down and, when the arrow struck, he welcomed oblivion. But she – she had faced the Captain of Despair and defeated him. She had fought his worst nightmare and triumphed. And now, whenever he recalled that horror, when the noise and the fear threatened to pull him under once again, he need only reach out, and he could take the hand which had been the means of its destruction.

Quietly, more fancifully, perhaps, he could not help but think that the Powers of the world condoned their choices and actions. She had come South, and fulfilled prophecy, and saved him. An Eagle had brought them news of victory, and the wind had tousled their hair, and now they were to forge a life together, build a home together, live there in joy and bliss… How could he not see this as the blessing of the Lords of the West?

Did she not see this too?

* * *

At the end of the day, he came as he always did to find her at the Houses of Healing. They walked back home together, and ate, and shared their news, and then sat together in the garden. This evening, he said, "I have something for you."

She began to laugh. Daily, it seemed, he presented her with something new. His mother's possessions, in the main, and they both took pleasure in seeing them brought into the light, to be used and loved once again. She had been glad in particular of the clothes. Dernhelm had not come prepared for ceremonies and courtly appearances. Dernhelm had come in search of death.

"Another gift? Oh, Faramir!"

She was surprised to see that he was not laughing. He looked sombre. _He is not speaking to me as my love_ , she thought. _He is speaking as the Steward of Gondor_. What could this gift be?

He passed her a little black case, about the size of her palm. She turned it around in her hands. The case was bashed, the clasp fiddly and loose. She opened it with care. Inside lay an oval brooch, black, with the White Tree engraved upon it. She took this out and twisted it between her thumb and forefinger. It had been through the wars: there was a chip in the casing, and the Tree was scratched. Underneath the tree was a motto. She could read Sindarin, of course, her grandmother-tongue. The words said: _Valour beyond duty_.

Some kind of honour. "Is this yours?" she said.

"No," he said, "save through inheritance. Although I did wear it once." He slipped his hand between his tunic and his shirt, patting the place above his heart. "Here. When I rode for the river. That's when it cracked."

"So whose was it?"

"It belonged to the most valiant man in Gondor."

But not his… Of course. His brother's. "You mean for me to have this?"

"Yes."

"Love," she said, offering it back, "I cannot—"

"I regret the damage," he went on. "But I thought you might prefer this to one new made—"

"Love!" she said, trying to stop him.

"I know what some are saying," he said, quietly. "I know you have heard them too. And that you have told yourself that perhaps there is some truth in what they say. But they are wrong, and you are wrong to believe them. Let me be clear, Éowyn, you receive this not for your valour in battle on the Pelennor, nor for your fulfilment of prophecy, but for the choice you made at Dunharrow—"

"I left Dunharrow," she said, her voice harsh. "I abandoned my post—"

"Yes, you disobeyed. As did Master Meriadoc. And your brother, letting the King pass through the Mark unchecked. And I, when I let the Ringbearer go, and Beregond and Peregrin, when they left their posts and saved my life—"

She shook her head. "These are not the same—"

"No?" His eyes were grave, and kind. "Éowyn, throughout my life, my brother and I were judged by different standards. His acts, it often seemed, earned honours; mine reproach. I think this has been the same for you. Yes, perhaps we should have obeyed our lords' commands – but, to earn honour doing what you know not to be right? That is a kind of death in itself. You took the steps necessary to prevent your own extinction." He reached for her hand. "Oh love! Why else have we fought? If you were in Dunharrow now, your spirit broken, what victory would that be? Besides," he said, "I think that if you had stayed behind, you would not now be alive."

She looked down at their hands, clasped together, and thought about this. The swift changes of the past few weeks had been so overwhelming, so joyful – so _altering_ – that she found it hard to recall her state of mind. But now, thinking back to those last days, the old sensations returned – that choking, stifling feeling, as if she was already in the ground; the agony of forcing herself to passivity and compliance, when she knew that she was meant to _act_ … Yes, she thought, he was right. If she had watched the Riders go, if she had remained there, alone, she would not be here. She would be dead, at her own hand.

"You know that I often wonder about my father in his last hours," he said. "Whatever state he entered then, whatever pain he felt, I would not wish that on anyone. Least of all on you. We fought to restore hope, love. Not crush it."

Softly, she began to cry.

He retrieved the brooch. "I shall never wear this again," he said. "It was never mine to wear – but it is mine to give. To see you wearing it would give me great joy. And let those who would call you undutiful look at it and know that the Lord of Gondor has said that you are valiant – beyond duty."

He knelt on the grass before her. He pinned the badge to her, then saluted her, hand to heart. "Gondor honours you, Lady."

He kissed her brow. She felt the wind in her hair; saw his lift too. She took his hand in hers; pressed them against her heart. _I am loved_ , she thought. _I am blessed. I am home_.

* * *

 **A/N:** I read the idea that the raven-and-golden-hair-mingling breeze was a blessing from Manwë in the notes to a story somewhere and I can't now find it. Please let me know if you know where so I can credit!

 _Altariel, 12_ _th_ _September 2018_


	7. Honour Abated

**Honour Abated**

" _But if doom denies this to me, then I will have naught: neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor honour abated."_  
Denethor, 'The Pyre of Denethor'

* * *

 _ **Fealty with love**_

Denethor forgets now why he never gave the medal. Always there had been good reason. Some need to keep a mission secret. Some question over who exactly had done what. Always something small to prevent him honouring the second son's deeds as beyond duty.

Ecthelion had not been so scrupulous. He had liked to be generous and give rewards. All his peers had one. Had that lessened the gift? Perhaps, but he still faintly remembers kneeling before his father, lifting his eyes as he received the honour, seeing the longed-for gleam of pride. He will take that to his death.

 _ **Valour with honour**_

Boromir had received one, of course. His father could not deny him anything. Merely to see him was to have his heart lifted. When he looked at his older one, he could convince himself that something might well survive him. His strength, his fearlessness, his loyalty, his sheer vitality… All lost, extinguished, gone ahead.

He wonders where that medal is now. It had not been in his rooms when he had them cleared. Had he taken it with him on his journey? Was it passing down the river with him? Had it reached the Sea? Soon, perhaps, he will know.

 _ **Oath-breaking with vengeance**_

His son lies still. He has not moved for hours, and will not speak, but he burns. He burns.

With great care, Denethor gathers what is to come with him: the rod, the globe, the honour, the boy. Grave goods. In the stone house, they take their place beside their longfathers. He sets his medal between them and puts his son's pale hand upon it. Honour earned. He himself takes the rod in one hand and the globe in the other.

Now everything is ready. Everything in its resting place. He calls for oil and fire. He waits to burn.

* * *

 _Altariel, 29_ _th_ _September 2018_


	8. The Star of the North

**The Star of the North**

 _Arnor, 20 F.A._

To travel these days between the twin capitals of the Reunited Kingdom, one typically rode south to the Brandywine Bridge, where, by edict of the King, one turned aside so as not to enter the Shire. Instead, keeping that sheltered land to the right, one followed instead the river down to the garrison town at Sarn Ford, and from there went on to Tharbad, where the new settlement was rising, gateway between the north and south kingdoms. After that one took the old South Road to Edoras, and a fine welcome at the King's hall in Edoras, and then the familiar good road to Minas Tirith. Perhaps one might spend the night in the Citadel – or, being now so close to home and family – one might instead take the ferry from the Harlond and come at last to the foothills of Emyn Arnen, where the cry would go up that the Prince had returned. Such had been Faramir's plan on leaving Annúminas. Yet tonight, a fine summer night at the start of August, he found himself lying beneath the stars in lost Arthedain, somewhere between Fornost and Bree.

Annúminas was the farthest that Faramir had ever been from home. His whole life, until now, had been spent within the bounds of Gondor. There had been a brief time, as a boy, when he had dreamed of travelling, would look at maps and murmur the words he read there: _Gwathl_ _ó_ _, Baranduin, Imladris…_ Instead he knew different places: Lossarnach, Lamedon, Belfalas, Dol Amroth. As the years passed, even the journeys to his mother-country became infrequent, and his world narrowed to the twin poles of his twin duties: the cool schemes of the Citadel of Minas Tirith; the killing fields of Ithilien. Every stone of the City, known intimately; every inch of Ithilien, ground deep into his body.

The peace had continued in much the same way (with, thank the Valar, far less blood and bone, and much more time indoors). He had slipped with ease out of the part of soldier and into the role of statesman. In Minas Tirith, he was politician, counsellor, diplomat. He made policies, treaties, laws. He had quiet words in quiet corners with the recalcitrant, and told the king not to worry, all would come good when it came to the vote. In Ithilien, he was march-warden, magistrate, landowner, husband, father. Sometimes he even found time to write, and the long lay of the last queen inched ever closer to completion.

Then: _"Come with me to Tharbad,"_ said Aragorn. And from Tharbad, _"Come to Rivendell_ …" and then north, along roads newly mended, until that fair morning in June, when they had crossed the southern foothills of the Emyn Uial, and he had put his hand to his mouth at the sheer beauty of Lake Evendim, smooth and blue as glass, and, beside it, the brave new towers of the town, the tree and stars fluttering overhead. Tears had sprung into his eyes at the sight: this new city of the Men of the West rising from the ruins of the lost old kingdoms. His mind had gone back to the last gruelling hours of the defence of Minas Tirith, his back against the city walls, the growing conviction that the last stronghold of Númenor was falling. And now… Now they both stood – Minas Anor, old and battered, but still proud queen in the South; Annúminas – new and fair, rising from the grasslands of the North.

All that work… Surely he might permit himself a few tears. The King, beside him, smiled. "Worth a night or two beneath the stars, eh? Welcome to our home in the north, Ithilien."

 _Our home in the north…_ Yes, they were all Dúnedain, were they not? And yet, for the first few days among the court of this small city, Faramir had sensed some wariness towards him from his northern kin. How could there not be, towards the heir of Pelendur, the man who had rejected Arvedui? But he was not that man. He was not Pelendur, nor Mardil, indeed. Neither was he Cirion, nor Ecthelion, and he was most certainly not Denethor. No, he was Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of the High King. He had knelt before Elendil's heir on the Pelennor, and begged leave to surrender his office. More, he had grasped, fully, the scale of the task before them, bringing these two kingdoms together. He had known where the danger would lie in the south, which lords resented the shift in the balance of power and the allocation of funds. He had taken people aside, for quiet words in quiet corners, and traded, and dealt, and cajoled – and, yes, once or twice, threatened – and kept the king's hands untied, and had said, again and again, _You need not worry, sire, all will come good when it comes to the vote_. And he had always been right.

Five days, he gave himself, to show his kinsmen in the north the man that he was: shrewd; intelligent; temperate; wise; their best friend in the south. It took him three. The fourth day was Midsummer, and clad, like the rest, in white, and garlanded in green, he followed the procession out from the city up until the hills. There, looking back over the blue lake and the white town, he watched as the King laid out fruit in offering, and he heard, for the first time in his life, the _Erulaitalë_ spoken out loud. Standing amongst his northern kin, he felt oddly rustic and untutored. They had lost this ceremony in the south, long ago. Besides, it was not the Stewards' right to say these words. It was the King's – and there had been no King for so very long. An eagle flew overhead. This was the closest, he thought, that he would come to standing upon Númenor itself. This pure sky; this clear day; the King's voice ringing out; given this gift. _I have come home_ , he thought.

Dazed from the ritual, welcomed more profoundly than he could ever have hoped, he was easily persuaded to extend their journey further, and walk with Strider to Fornost.

"King's Norbury," said Elessar, looking out over its ruins. "We build here next."

They took an old road south, through wild land. Strider set the pace; Ithilien followed. "A week until Bree," said the King. "Or less, with some effort."

They were four days out now. Had walked well into the night. Little in the way of speech; the company was sufficient. At last, Strider said, "Another mile. A stream, and a place to rest."

They made camp where he said; ate; put out their bedrolls. Aragorn, propped up against a tree, took out his pipe, completely content.

Faramir lay down flat. He put out his palms out to rest them lightly upon the northern ground. He recalled a boyhood summer spent cooped up in the library at Denethor's decree, learning the history of this land. One afternoon, trying to commit to memory the names of the Kings of Arthedain, he had thought he might go mad. Twelve years old, and, as the sun went down and he became ever more lost somewhere between Argeleb and Araphor (or was it Arvegil?), he grasped with sudden, painful loss that he would never be permitted to leave Gondor. That was not his father's plan for him.

"Tharbad," said Faramir.

"Hmm?"

"When you asked me to come with you on this journey, I said I'd come as far as Tharbad."

"You were getting stale behind that desk."

"I _thought_ I was at the height of my powers—"

"And would you have missed seeing Rivendell? Annúminas?"

Faramir turned onto his side; propped himself up on one elbow. "Never."

Aragorn nodded, and returned to his pipe. After a little while, he said, "I have a gift for you."

"A gift?"

"Yes. Sometimes, Faramir, I think I take you for granted."

He was momentarily lost for words. "You have given me…" _My life._ "Besides everything else, you have given me Ithilien. Which admittedly takes all my waking hours and most of my worldly wealth, but nonetheless—"

"Denethor was not, I think, open-handed when it came to honours."

"Honours?"

"I see men who did far less than you wearing honours."

"You mean medals? Do I strike you as the kind that needs formal recognition? The duty performed well is the reward—"

"Still, I should like you have something."

Aragorn put down his pipe. From inside his cloak, he drew out something that glinted silver in the moonlight. Laying it flat on his palm, he held it out for Faramir to see.

A silver brooch shaped like a many-rayed star. He had seen badges like this, many years ago, in the Houses of Healing, pinned on the cloaks of the Dúnedain resting there. And this last week, in Annúminas, he had seen it everywhere…

"This belonged to a friend of mine. Had he lived, he would have been my steward, here, in the north. He did not. You, however, did. And now it is yours." Grey eyes, sharp and clear, met the Steward's. "We can make this as formal a bestowal as you desire. I thought I might simply pin it on you."

They chose the latter, although once that was done, they did clasp hands.

"You _will_ wear this in public," said the King. "I will see you honoured if it kills me." Then he picked up his pipe again, and Faramir went back to staring at the stars.

"And I give you my word," said Aragorn, "that we are heading home now."

"Well, if you have given your word—"

"One more stop first—"

"Sire!"

"Not far. Bree."

Faramir placed his hand upon the star that now lay over his heart. "It's an inn, isn't it? It's another inn."

Behind the cover of the pipe smoke, Strider smiled. "The finest in the kingdom."

* * *

 _Altariel, 24_ _th_ _December 2019_


End file.
